


Res Minutae

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Amabilis Insania [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Budding Love, Dark Past, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Loss, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Inner Dialogue, Male-Female Friendship, Memories, Minor Swearing, Newborn Children, Non-Canon Relationship, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Romantic Friendship, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7274215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title translates from Latin as "Little Things". There are so many little things that Alexius keeps remembering - so many happy little moments that he shared with Livia and Felix before their family was shattered. He never would have thought it possible to add new happy memories to these cherished, bittersweet visions - and yet, he has been proved wrong. He may have lost his wife and son, but he has gained an unexpected new friend, who has miraculously managed to enrich his life with more little moments that he will later look back on with a smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Res Minutae

As he was being escorted - or perhaps, pushed would be a more appropriate word - across the Inquisitor's throne room on the day of his judgement, Alexius caught a brief glimpse of the stone wall to his left. It was only for a split second, and his numb, weary mind did not even process the image properly at the time, too occupied by other matters - but later on, long after he assumed his assigned duties among Fiona's mages, the picture of that wall returned to him, many a time, giving him plenty of reasons to ponder (perhaps, unbeknownst to him, his mind has been spurred on by that spirit boy, Cole; he wouldn't put it past him).  
  
What caught his eye, on the way to the lofty platform with the Inquisitor's throne, was the faint glint of the gilded tiles, mounted in several places on the wall. A mosaic, as he later realized - it is still there, brightening up the vast expanse of Skyhold's main hallway with the soft golden glow that it reflects off the torches and the tall stained-glass windows. It is complete now: the Inquisitor saw to that personally, for apparently she cannot pass up any shiny curios that she comes across on her travels. But when Alexius first saw it, most of the tiles were missing, with squares of barren stone gaping between the mismatched pieces.  
  
This is what struck him most about the fleeting image, captured within his memory while he was not even fully aware of what was going on around him. Those dark gaps, contrasting so strikingly with the slivers of gold. And he has found himself thinking - is that not what life is like? Countless mosaic tiles, all fitting together - countless little moments, shaping one's existence?  
  
It is not the first instance when the subject interested him, not by far. He spent many long hours theorizing about the nature of time, of human memory, of our perception of life, while he and Dorian were working on that ill-fated spell. But this time, the image of an incomplete mosaic is very, very personal.  
  
Once, there were so many of those bright, golden tiles shaping the mosaic of his life. Once, his memory was a treasure trove of innumerable gems, of little moments and images that were carefully preserved by his mind - trivial to an outsider, but infinitely precious to him.

  
  
Like that ink smudge on the forefinger of the tall young woman that showed up one day in his laboratory at the Circle and stretched out her hand in greeting, her tone brusque and business-like - not knowing yet that the slightly awkward scholar before her was to become her most trusted companion.

  
  
_'Livia of House Arida. I have been assigned to assist you in your research of the Fade. Shall we begin?'_

 

  
  
Or like the playful dance of the spell wisps, shining so bright in the murk of the deserted library, circling all around Livia's head, burrowing through the strands of hair in her ponytail and whizzing to and fro among her fingers, the blur of their motion making it seem like she was wearing several dazzling jeweled rings.

She swatted at the wisps weakly, pretending to be annoyed, but there was no harshness in her gaze or in her voice as she scolded him, in half-whisper.

  
  
_'Gereon, will you stop casting these things? I am warning you, I might giggle out loud, and then we'll get kicked out again!'_  
  
_'Did you know that there used to be a place on Seheron - a forest clearing where, for a single night in the year, thousands and thousands of fireflies would soar up to the sky, filling the air with their ethereal light? According to this scroll that I found, that forest was burned down during a skirmish with the Qunari some time ago, and the fireflies vanished completely. It was only then, says the author, that the people realized how much beauty had slipped away from them...'_  
  
_'What brought this on? You were supposed to help me sort through these manuscripts on the properties of the Veil, not get distracted by some fairy tale about fireflies!'_  
  
_'You know what brought this on. When one finds oneself falling in love with one's best friend and realizes that the feeling is not exactly one-sided, one intends to enjoy every second of this beautiful feeling for as long as it lasts'._  
  
_'You sound so funny when you try to be pompous! You will make a terrible magister!'_  
  
_'And there comes that giggle...'_

 

  
  
Or the little plop-like sound that the ring made when he dropped it casually on the bottom of the goblet with wine, before passing it on to Livia, during their little candlelit celebration in his quarters, on the day when the announcement arrived that Alexius Senior was ceding his seat at the Magisterium to his son and heir. Livia was too preoccupied with her thoughts, scratching absently at her plate with her fork, to notice the little stunt he had just pulled - and his own finesse made him break into the stupidest grin imaginable. That, she did notice.

  
  
_'I would never have assumed you'd be so overjoyed by taking your father's place. You haven't struck me as someone who enjoys politics'._  
  
_'Well, I have a few things in mind, some potential reforms to discuss; improving the Soporati situation, for one... If the old man wants me to be a magister, might as well turn the post into something useful'._  
  
_'And with the post, comes your duty to your noble house... Continuing the line; merging your blood with that of the mate your father will choose for you...'_  
  
_'I have a few things in mind on this matter, as well... Say - how about we make a toast, Livia? To my mind - and the things on it!'_  
  
_'Gereon, I don't...'_  
  
_'Just trust me - and be careful not to choke!'_

 

  
  
Or that tiny, dimpled hand, peeking out of its soft blanket cocoon, grasping tentatively at the air, as if trying to find something to hold on to in this new, strange world. The tender little fingers did not search for long: the grown man who was holding the blanket extended one of his, and the newborn child clung on to him, closing its fist tightly, as though to anchor itself to the life that was just beginning. And the little one's mother smiled, as she lay back on her bed, looking pale and drained, but at the same time rather amused by the father's expression, which must have spelled out all the dazed, breathless happiness that he was feeling.

  
  
_'I think he likes you'._  
  
_'I... Livia... He... He is so beautiful...'_  
  
_'Well, he'd better be! After all the trouble I went through... Now, Gereon, I am just teasing - don't look so affronted! A woman is allowed a little irony when her hard work is done!'_  
  
_'Of course... I... I wasn't... You know... I think I have figured out what to name him'._  
  
_'So soon? If it's something boring like Gereon Junior I will hit you with a pillow'._  
  
_'No, no - actually... I was thinking... Felix. I was thinking we should name him Felix'.._

 

  
  
Or the sudden suspicious bumping noise under the opposite seat of his carriage, which made his start and drop the book he was reading, a short way down the road from his country estate to Minrathous. A little inspection (accompanied by the prodding of his mage's staff) soon caused the noise's source to emerge, messy-haired, slightly sweaty, and more than slightly sheepish. He did not even put on his strict fatherly expression at first, too amazed by little Felix's antics as he rolled out of his hiding place across the floor and then leapt to his feet, flapping his arms like a rather clumsy little bird. When the boy straightened himself up, however, it seemed like a suitable time for a parental lecture - combined with helping him dust himself off. The scolding went quite well - initially. But after a short while, he just could not keep it up any longer, what with those large, eager brown eyes looking up at him pleadingly from beneath a fringe of ruffled, spiky hair.

  
  
_'And what was that supposed to be? Some sort of disappearing act? What were you trying to do, sneak off to Minrathous with me? I don't go there to have fun, you know - I have important business at the Magisterium, and...'_  
  
_'I miss you when you leave home, Papa. Please - please don't stop the carriage! I promise I won't get in the way! I will be quiet as a mouse - and I can help, too! Do you need any numbers done? You know I am good with numbers! And I swear I won't go to any places that are for magic-people only!'_  
  
_'What? Magic-people only? What sort of nonsense is that?.. Ah... Ah, I see... Why, now that I think of it, taking you with me will be an excellent idea! Other magisters do that occasionally, show their heirs the ropes, as it were; so why shouldn't I? I have been doing you a great disservice, keeping you hidden away like this! And if one of them as much as dares to breathe a word, I'll...'_  
  
_'You are really taking me to the city, Papa? Really really?'_  
  
_'Really really. Just let me stop the carriage to send someone to your mother and let her know that you are with me, safe and sound. Else we'll both get into trouble'._  
  
_'You know me, Papa. I like trouble!'_

 

  
  
Or the pale-white squares of sunlight on the sitting room floor, with Felix's silhouette outlined against them with stark clarity, like a figure from one of the shadow plays they would put on when he was a child - pacing excitedly back and forth, the small rectangle of a half-unfolded letter clasped in his hand.

  
  
_'They have accepted me, Father! They have accepted me! I am starting my first term at the University of Orlais this autumn! Oh, this is going to be just wonderful!'_

 

  
  
This mosaic could have had so much more tiles in it; so much more bright colours and familiar voices and little mementos linking his mind back to moments of happiness. But like the scattered fragments on that wall, the tiles are now separated by gaping nothingness. He will never hear his Livia's voice again, chastising him, not unkindly, for getting carried away by whatever absorbs him at the moment, be it research or his work at the Magisterium or a desire to prove to his family that he loves them. He will never see Felix smile as he looks in his eyes and realizes how much his Papa is proud of the man he has grown to be.  
  
The lives of the two people he cared about the most were mercilessly cut short before the picture could be completed, and those dark patches, these blank slates in the place of what might have been, seem to drain his heart of all its life force, leaving him hollow and numb, deprived of all feelings except for one - a bitter revulsion towards himself, for having failed his beloved child, and towards the world, for continuing to exist when his whole life came crumbling down.  
  
At least, so it was at first - when he was paraded in chains up the hill slope in Haven, towards the Chantry, where he was to be imprisoned, with his back aching under the weight of his shackles, with his feet covered in blisters after trudging uphill, and with his boots sinking deep into a gooey mix of thawing snow, mud, and the droppings of multitudinous critters that roamed the place. He barely acknowledged his own weariness, the clamour of voices that filled the air, or the stench that clung on to him as he kneaded the muck underfoot. His spirit seemed to have detached itself from his body, watching with bored indifference, from somewhere beyond the Veil perhaps, as that miserable captive, a haggard old man with thin, tightly pursed lips and an unkempt grizzled stubble, was being escorted by armed guards to the place of his imprisonment.  
  
He snapped back to reality only for a moment - while his convoy was passing a large tent, just opposite the Chantry's gateway. That was when his burning, so painfully tearless eyes fell on the Inquisitor (still just the Herald back then), who was engaged in a very animated conversation with the Spymaster at the makeshift working desk underneath the shelter of that tent (perhaps they were discussing his shameful defeat). As she caught his gaze, the young elf fell silent and lifted her hand in an uncertain gesture, as though trying to reach out to him. Seeing her, this triumphant little heroine that seemed to have so gracefully foiled his plans, putting an end to any bargain he may still have had with the Elder One - seeing her still alive, doubtlessly bringing so much joy to her parents, whoever they were, while his darling boy, his Felix, was doomed to die... Heavens above, it was too much. Suddenly, that scathing bitterness overwhelmed him, and he tore his cracking, parched mouth open, cawing maliciously,  
  
'Rejoice while you can, Herald! The Elder One will not let this rest! The people you saved, the acclaim you've gathered - you will lose it all in the storm to come!'  
  
As it turned out, his words proved quite prophetic - one more thing to later regret and apologize for. When he spoke them, slinging them into the Herald's face as though they were a handful of mud that he was wading through, was when he sank to his lowest. When the empty spaces in the mosaic of his past, present, and future, were especially haunting, and when the pain they brought him was so profound that it almost severed his mind from his useless husk.  
  
But that crushed, miserable state did not last for much long afterwards. The incomplete mosaic is still there, and looking at the blanks still hurts - but there is a new picture, right next to it, being slowly assembled out of brand new, shining tiles, which, quite in spite of all he might have thought or predicted, are steadily becoming more and more precious to him.

 

  
  
Like, oddly enough (it must be quite foolish for him to remember it so fondly), the taste of the hard, thick slice of goat cheese, stuffed in between two chunks of rye bread together with a sliver of bacon and some wilted greens. The Herald brought the treat to him on her second visit to the dungeon, shortly before she headed off to close the Breach. The elf did not stay for long, and did not make any mention of that little heartfelt talk they had had previously - but she did inform her lone prisoner that his talkative bumpkin of a jailor had reported to her that he had stopped refusing his food, which (in her eyes) meant that he absolutely had to try one of the local innkeeper's 'sammiches'. The look that she gave Alexius, while pushing the stuffed bread through the metal bars, was more than demanding, so he had to take a bite out of the 'sammich' right then and there. The combination of the ingredients turned out to be both pleasant and filling - and his stomach even let out a rather embarrassing gurgle as he swallowed his first mouthful (with the Herald looking on and smiling all the while).

 

  
  
_'I... I beg your pardon, Herald. I did not realize I was so... famished'._  
  
_'It's quite all right! Flissa's sammiches would lure a high dragon out of her lair!'_  
  
_'What... What exactly is this... "sammich"? Some sort of southern peasant food?'_  
  
_'Well, it's called sandwich, actually. Varric - you know, that's one of my companions, quite a storyteller... He says that the name is a tribute to Ser Sandwich, a Free Marcher knight, who was always off on some military expedition or other and had no time to sit down and have a proper meal. So he got into the habit of taking the usual parts of a dinner, like meat and greens and such, and stuffing it in between two slices of bread, and eating it all on horseback!.. Oh goodness, I did not mean to ramble on like that; I was just trying to make your day a little better!'_  
  
_'I am not entirely certain that is possible, Herald... But you did just help me discover that I am still capable of feeling curious. That is quite unexpected, and... not completely unwelcome'._  
  
_'Oooh, lovely! It's so nice to see you a little less... listless! Please, please tell me if there is anything else you need! I try to take care of everyone I meet, and that includes you! I can do no less, what with the example set by the great Hero of Ferelden herself; I remember a line from a book about her that said, "The hand that slew the archdemon also fed a hungry prisoner"._

 

  
  
Next to that little scene, there is another mosaic tile, which also depicts all manner of foolishness: that childish game of 'snowballs', promised to him by the Herald during a stop on their journey to Skyhold. She made good on her promise shortly afterwards, teaming up against Alexius together with Varric the dwarf (since he had the advantage of magic on his side). The stocky, excessively hairy-chested fellow scrutinized the captured magister with suspicion at first, muttering something like 'Hey, just because I happened to be passing by doesn't mean I have to be roped into some outdoorsey thingie' and 'I still remember that guy being all wrapped up in Corypheus' crazy shit, and now you are friends with him?'. But after being reassured by the Herald, he conceded to take part in the game... And before any of the knew it, the human, the elf, and the dwarf were already circling around at the back of the campsite, scooping up little lumps of thawing snow and casting them at one another – and exchanging light-hearted jests whenever one of them got hit.  
  
Just like Varric, Alexius initially partook of this bizarre winter pastime to humour the Herald - but, as he had to admit to himself, he actually found the little match rather invigorating. The brisk, rapid movement, with the snow creaking loudly underneath his feet; the challenge for his reflexes as the dwarf took aim and he had to promptly decide which way to dodge in order not to be ambushed by the elf; the crisp freshness of the mountain air, made all the more enjoyable because he was shielded from its freezing touch by the heat of the game and the warm cloak that an Inquisition guard had brought to his tent, 'by order of the Herald' - all of this filled him, however briefly, with a burst of vibrant, almost carefree energy, which he did not know he had in him. Absorbed in the moment, with his mind fixed on this simple yet inexplicably riveting game, he felt like he could take deeper, freer breaths than he had been capable of in many months.  
  
But what Alexius appreciates the most about this particular tile of the mosaic is the look on the Herald's face when he managed to best the dwarf: by distracting him with a little magical flurry, which he had raised behind his back - and then hitting him with a soft snowy projectile as he turned around.  
  
While Varric spluttered and brushed the glittering icy powder off his chest, the magister regarded him with a smug smirk - and the sight of him smiling for more than half a second made Lavellan part her lips in a beaming grin of her own. This made little dimples appear on her round, freckled cheeks; and it is those dimples that Alexius remembers most vividly of all.

  
  
_'I knew it! I knew a game of snowballs would make you feel better! I think we should try sledding next - what do you think, Varric?'_  
  
_'Oh no, count me out, Blueberry! There is only so much of the outdoors a fellow can take at one time! But I would not mind watching from afar, preferably with a large cup of something hot, as you and your magister buddy go frolic about in the mountains... Andraste's flaming knickers, did I just use "magister" and "frolic" in the same context?'_

 

  
And then, of course, there is the mosaic tile that depicts the Skyhold library, filled with copper-shaded evening light - and Inquisitor, nestled in an alcove between two bookcases, a with a large, unwieldy tome (something on Chantry history, no doubt) propped up against her knees like a makeshift easel, its cover serving as a hard, smooth support for a sheet she had torn out of her journal to draw on.  
  
As, on her way to visit Alexius, she bumped into Clemence the alchemist, he told her, with all the usual unsettling frankness of a Tranquil, that the magister now knew she had been making doodles of him. This made her hide her face in her hands, blushing brighter than the setting sun outside (quite understandably, as a person's journal, especially a young person's journal, is not something to be discussed so publicly). Alexius was more than prepared to pretend that Clemence had never said anything - especially since he himself was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable. But when Lavellan finally found it in her to break the awkward silence, she blurted out a rushed explanation that Solas was encouraging her to pursue art, like so many of her ancestors did; and that she was trying to make sketches of all her friends, and sometimes of the places she'd visited as well; and that they usually came out 'kinda decent', but Alexius' portrait was turning out to be the hardest because she had to draw from memory and she could not quite get his nose right... Then, in an unexpected fit of vanity, he offered to sit for her, so to speak - and before he could even begin to realize how preposterous the idea was, she had already dashed off to borrow some sharpened charcoal from the Tranquil researchers.  
  
When she returned, Lavellan immediately set to work, positively overflowing with zeal. Alexius could not surmise what 'kinda decent' would turn out to look - and at that point, he did not really care. It was already more than enough to savour the flattering thought that a (lovely) young woman considered his wretched old face worthy of drawing - and to observe her at work, her eyes glowing brighter and brighter with each stroke of the charcoal (just the way Felix's eyes would light up when he came across a challenging new puzzle to solve). For a moment, Alexius even wondered if this was a sign of... of him being somehow... special. No - it couldn't be; she drew all her friends. She drew all her friends.  
  
She was too shy to show the resulting portrait, and he did not insist. He just watched her, smiling inwardly, as she folded the drawing, and put the tome-turned-easel back on its shelf, and thanked him breathlessly for letting her draw him. The black smears across her palms suddenly reminded him of the ink blotches that drew his attention when Livia first introduced herself to him. In his mind, these little mosaic tiles still rest side by side - and he has to wonder if there is some significance in that. He has never been too keen on omens and augury and such - but now that he has become friends with someone hailed as the Herald of Andraste...

  
  
_'Thank you, Gereon! Thank you again! I hope this not too much trouble!'_  
  
_'Trouble? Yavanna, I am honoured! I may have been something to look at many years ago, but these days ...'_  
  
_'These days, you still are! Honestly - what is it with you Tevinter men and noses? Dorian's is so perfect even Cassandra gets distracted... and yours, well... I mean...'_  
  
_'Well, I suppose centuries worth of eugenics had to bear at least some fruit, did they not? Jests aside, let me tell you this: I have had my portrait painted at various stages of my life, by various artists, with official garb on and one hand behind my back and all... But never before has the experience been so gratifying'._  
  
_'Oh... Oh goodness... Now I am even more certain that you shouldn't see it! You'll be so disappointed! Solas may say that I am making progress, but I am still nowhere near those fresco painters from Arlathan... Or the fancy portrait artists from the Imperium!'_  
  
_'What I saw was enough. I saw that you poured your heart in it, just like in everything else you do'._  
  
_'Well, it's the least I can do for a friend, right?'_  
  
_'Of course... For... For a friend'._

 

  
With every new day, these tiles are being joined by many, many more. Fleeting glances, reassuring smiles, a gentle touch now and again... And countless, countless conversations, about just about anything that interested either of them: from the meaning of a Tevinter proverb that Dorian quoted in his banter with the others and that Lavellan did not quite understand, the cultural significance of Lavellan's facial markings, which the magister cautiously tried to learn more about, without insulting her or her people; from amusing travel anecdotes (which Alexius also had his fair share of, mostly from the days of his youth, though none could compare to his elven friend's bizarre encounters) to ancient maps and charts of barely explored wilderness; from the particularly striking blend of colours that both of them noticed in the morning sky, and the fantastical assortment of things that the clouds reminded them of, to the misadventures of fledgling birds that were learning to fly outside Lavellan's window; from the fallacies of politics to the rules of Wicked Grace.  
  
Every moment spent side by side with the Inquisitor leaves behind a kaleidoscope of memories, a glittering, wondrous mosaic. Just like ink is not the same as charcoal, this mosaic is not the same as the one that is to remain forever unfinished on the wall of Alexius' mind. It will never replace what he once had; she will never replace Livia or Felix - nor should she. Charcoal is not ink; it is charcoal. And Lavellan is not one of the dear, cherished people that he lost - she is herself. And... would he dare to say it... just as dear and cherished.

 


End file.
